


Spectral Shades of Gray

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5786293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple ghost trapping turns out to be a lot more complicated...and dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectral Shades of Gray

First published in  _Magic & Mystery 1 (_2004)

 

It was their home, and it had been invaded. Who were you going to call for help? But there was no one, of course, and so she and he had to fight the intruders alone.

They were like nothing he had ever seen, though, with their strange attachments and powers. They ran after him and her as if they meant harm, and so he and she screamed back and ducked and feinted and stretched out of the way.

To no good. A beam of…something…that made him shiver as it passed close lashed out from the intruders' appendages and hit her. With a scream of pure fright, she was drawn toward them, and try as he desperately did, he could not pull free her. With a sob, he finally let her go and watched as she was sucked into another appendage, gone from him.

Shrieking his grief, he shot up and away from them, leaving the intruders—and her—behind. They had the advantage at the moment and he would not let himself also be taken, but he would wait, and plan.

And then he would take his revenge on those who had taken his home, and her, from him.

 

“Did you see that ghost go?!” Ray asked, staring at the ceiling with awe. “I think it was mad we trapped the other one.”

“Yeah, poor gooper, now he's got nobody to haunt with.” Peter's voice dripped with insincerity. Some ghosts, like those of humans who didn't realize they were dead, aroused his sympathy, but not this pair. They seemed to think moving in and scaring a family with little kids was fun, and it was Peter's pleasure to put nasties like that away.

“So, are we done? What's the meter say, Egon?”

“A minute, Winston.”

Egon was concentrating on the meter with an intensity that had Peter wondering how he'd even heard Winston's question. The physicist's glasses, in fact, were nearing the edge of his nose and threatening to slip off all the way, and Egon hadn't even noticed. With a grin, Peter pushed them back into place with a finger.

“Thank you, Peter,” was the absent, disappointing response, and no one noticed Peter's responding pout except for Ray, who gave him a quick smile and shake of the head. Egon looked up. “I'm not getting any more readings—the Class Five has completely left the vicinity. I suggest we're done here, gentlemen.”

Ray frowned. “What if it comes back?”

Peter slung an arm around his neck and explained with exaggerated patience, “Then we'll come back, Tex. And just to make things easier, I'll bill the clients for both goopers now with a guarantee we'll return if he does.”

“No, you won't,” Winston said firmly next to him.

“No, I won't,” Peter sighed. “But a guy can dream, right?”

That earned him a chorus of muted groans as the team began to pack up their equipment. Winston picked up the blinking trap with care, giving the ceiling above a speculative glance. But there was no sign of the second ghost, not even a splotch of ectoplasm to show where he'd gone through the ceiling. Some Class Fives were like that, less messy than Slimer, who'd been aptly named. _Why_ they couldn't get a ghost mascot like that instead of the slimeball, no one had bothered to explain to Peter.

They trudged back to the truck with packs and traps and a few other toys Egon had brought along “just in case”—just in case Peter didn't have enough to carry, he groused under his breath—and he left the packing to the three others while he settled up the bill with the clients. Young couple, two cute kids who looked like they were trying to decide if they were scared or awed by the Ghostbusters visiting their house. Probably didn't have a lot of money, and Peter surreptitiously gave them a break on the price. What the guys didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Although with the look Egon gave him as he climbed into Ecto, maybe Peter wasn't as surreptitious as he thought.

It was their last bust of the day, and he stretched out in the seat with a satisfied sigh. “You know what I'm gonna do tonight?” he said to no one in particular. “I'm gonna put my feet up, make some popcorn, and watch a few of those John Wayne tapes I got for Christmas.”

“And in what way is this different from other evenings?” Egon asked dryly from up front.

“Yeah, sounds to me like a typical Peter Venkman night,” Winston added with a quick glance into the rear view mirror and a slight grin.

“The typical Peter Venkman night,” Peter corrected haughtily, “is going out to a nice dinner at _Henri's_ with a gorgeous lady who loves champagne and dancing and hangs on my every word.”

“Gee, Peter, when did that happen?” Ray asked with irrepressible—and totally faked—innocence. “I don't remember her.”

“Giselle, perhaps?” Winston offered from the front seat.

“No, Giselle was the one who became ill after dinner and regurgitated in Peter's car. Perhaps you're thinking of Rochelle,” Egon answered.

“I think Rochelle was the one who had to go home early because she broke her heel. I coulda sworn she'd been wearing flats when they left…” Winston was shaking his head thoughtfully.

“How 'bout Francine?” Ray piped up, not one to be left out.

They all winced, Peter included, at the thought of Francine. “Yeah, that's right, make fun of Peter,” he groused, quickly redirecting the conversation away from Francine. “You guys are just jealous because I'm one of the city's most eligible bachelors. Anyone who goes out as much as I do's bound to make a few, uh, mistakes.”

“Of course, Peter,” Egon said very seriously, nodding once, even as Winston repeated in disbelief, “'Most eligible bachelor'? What are we, chopped liver?”

“I guess the ladies are just drawn to my good looks, my charming personality, my—”

The laughter drowned him out completely, and it was with wounded chagrin on the outside and a warm contentment on the inside that Peter subsided into his seat. Yeah, okay, he was the first to admit—to himself alone—that he wasn't the babe magnet he pretended to be. But the honest fact of the matter was that he liked the quiet nights at home, the evenings relaxing with the guys. Egon usually preferred reading to watching TV, but could be coaxed into enjoying a movie with them, or a game of Scrabble. Those, oddly enough, Winston usually won, even with Egon's vocabulary. Ray would pull out a comic book somewhere during the course of the evening, but he seemed to be able to read and watch TV at the same time and was always game for whatever Peter suggested. In all, it made for some cozy, fun evenings, especially after a long day of busting. The only aggravation would be keeping Slimer out of the popcorn, but after a beer, Peter tended to feel fairly magnanimous even toward the spud. No, as much as he liked the New York night scene and the opposite sex, those nights kicking back with the guys at home were about as ideal as life could get. He was looking forward to doing just that that evening.

After he short-sheeted every one of their beds, of course.

 

Early mornings were the perfect time to get some work done before busts intruded or Peter wandered in to pester him or Ray came up with some new idea he had to try right that minute or Janine came up with coffee and his morning flirtation. Not that Egon minded any of that, and indeed he didn't care to imagine his life without those interruptions, but it wasn't exactly conducive to getting work done, either. That's what those quiet mornings were for, before the guys were up or Janine came in. Egon relished the peace almost as much as he did the noise of his friends.

The phone rang, making his finger jump on the keyboard and sending a line of p's skittering across the screen of the computer. With only the slightest grimace, and an under-the-breath deprecation Peter would have been happily shocked to hear, Egon reached across the table to pick up the phone.

Yes, they were the Ghostbusters, and, yes, they were available, and would she please calm down so he could hear? One eyebrow started climbing as she talked—something green, transparent, several feet tall, with spikes like a porcupine had invaded a local school and would they _please_ hurry? It actually sounded like the Class Five that had gotten away the day before; Egon had been hoping it would resurface soon so they could finish the job. Yes, he promised, they'd be there shortly, listened to the woman's profuse thanks, and hung up.

He squared his shoulders. Now for the hard part.

Egon crossed from the lab to the bedroom door, standing in the doorway as he surveyed his sleeping colleagues. Ray was smiling, no doubt dreaming, while Winston lay flat on his back and frowned at whatever his dreams showed him. As for Peter, only the mound of blankets gave away where he was, nothing else visible of the psychologist.

Egon cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, we have a job.”

Winston snapped awake as he always did, a survival mechanism from his years in the military, Egon conjectured. Then he yawned widely. “Morning, Egon. We got a call, huh?”

“Tuesday's Class Five is back, this time at a school.”

That got rid of the lingering sleep in the older man's eyes, and he took his pillow and reached over to Ray's bed to give him a whack. When Stantz's eyes snapped open, he nodded toward Egon. “Tuesday's Class Five just showed up at a school.”

“Gosh.” Ray was already scrambling out of bed and looking for his slippers. How he could miss the huge Dopey Dog ones, Egon didn't know, but he had other worries. He strode over to Peter's bed and began peeling back blankets. And uncovered a pair of feet resting on Peter's pillow. With a sigh, Egon pulled the blankets off the bed completely.

Peter's only response was to curl into a ball to stay warm.

“Peter, it's time to get up.”

One hand groped out for a blanket, but not finding any, snagged the pillow instead and laid it over his feet. His eyes didn't even open.

“Peter! I must insist—”

The same hand grabbed again for the pillow, this time lobbing it half-heartedly in Egon's direction.

Egon avoided it with ease and frowned, trying not to smile. “We have to go.”

“So go,” came the petulant mutter.

“The Class Five from the day before yesterday has returned,” Egon continued patiently.

“Yay for it.” Peter snuggled deeper into his mattress.

Exasperation began to rise in him. “It's terrorizing a school, Peter.”

He probably should have said that at the beginning. Peter finally opened his eyes and glared at Egon. “A school?”

“Yes.”

Kids in danger or afraid was one of the few things that could mobilize Peter Venkman early in the morning, ranking just under his friends being in trouble. Sulking for the sake of appearance, he nevertheless was rising and pulling clothes on as quickly as the others were.

Egon shook his head in silent amusement and went to get ready himself.

Fifteen minutes later they were nudging their way through already congested streets. Even the siren couldn't help much when morning traffic filled the roads, but people were getting out of the way as best they could and Winston was good at slipping the hearse into small spaces that opened. Ray was already bouncing in the front seat at the thought of meeting the ghost from the day before again, fine-tuning his meter to the previous day's readings. And Peter—well, Peter was there, at least. He looked half-asleep and seemed to be breathing coffee as much as drinking it, but he gave Egon a small smile over the mug's rim as the physicist looked at him. Egon smiled back and then leaned forward over the seat to discuss the readings with Stantz.

The school was one of Manhattan's elementary schools, which meant small kids. Egon saw his team members' faces darken with the realization, and the sight of the crowd outside the building. The teachers looked as if they'd given up trying to keep the kids in line, just letting them play while they waited, although a few younger ones were clinging to the adults with fear. Egon's own jaw tightened at the sight. Ghosts haunting homes and businesses was one thing, but frightening children made it personal.

They gathered their equipment efficiently, Peter pausing to give the kids a quick talk and demonstration, getting down on his knees so he was face-to-face with some of the scared ones. By the time Egon and the others were ready, the kids were cheering and the teachers smiling. He caught Venkman's eyes as they regrouped and sent him a silent “good job.” Peter shrugged it off, but he was grinning.

They went inside.

It was eerily quiet in the building, with long, lit hallways stretching in three directions. They just stood for a moment, listening. Or rather, the others were listening, while Egon checked the meter Ray had set. There was no sound they could hear in the school, but the antennae rose halfway as Egon turned the meter to the left. “That way.” He pointed.

They trekked down the hallway in their packs, not getting far before they could start to hear it. It was that same odd wailing from the day before, Egon was sure of it, and he dismissed the shiver it sent down his back. The first hadn't been difficult to trap and this should be no different.

It was in the second-to-last classroom from the end, its wailing whoops wincingly loud up close. It was apparently one of those ghosts that thrived on havoc, picking up piles of paper as it swooped through the room and throwing them around by the handful. The floor of the classroom was already covered with different colors of construction paper and blank white sheets.

“Ready?” Winston whispered, unshipping his thrower.

Egon nodded, as did Ray on his right. “Let's expel this sucker,” Peter hissed from his right.

The ghost suddenly seemed to sense their presence, freezing in mid-air and turning toward them.

“Now!” Winston yelled, and all four of them aimed and—

Without a sound, the ghost zoomed upward through the ceiling as if fired from a gun, disappearing through it without even a smear of ectoplasm to mark its wake.

Ray groaned, Peter muttering a bad word as they pulled their shot at the last second. “I hate it when they do that,” Winston grumbled.

“I don't understand why it's behaving this way.” Egon was already thinking aloud. The meter he'd automatically aimed at the disappearing ghost gave one last half-hearted beep and fell silent. “It seemed to recognize us and the danger it was in, which indicates a certain amount of intelligence, yet its actions here seem irrational.”

“Ghost logic?” Peter asked wryly. “C'mon, Egon, it just doesn't want to play with us. We'll get it sooner or later.”

It was the “later” part that bothered him. Egon frowned at the empty room. The ghost _had_ seemed to recognize them, but for a moment there Egon had thought he'd seen more, a malevolence in the pale green eyes, a hatred directed at them. And then, just as it had disappeared…triumph?

“Yeah, I don't think we've seen the last of it,” Winston was answering Peter, but he sounded as uneasy as Egon felt. Perhaps he'd seen it, too?

Egon shook the feeling off. He was anthropomorphizing. The ghost had recognized them from before—Class Fives were capable of that level of intelligence—and of course it hated them for taking its companion. There was no mystery there.

But he couldn't help but feel uneasy as they packed up and left for home.

 

The building he'd sought and marked before was not far and he reached it quickly, passing through the front door into the large, silent room within.

There was a desk at the far end, a stairway to one side and a door on the other. He could feel where the door went, the power that throbbed under the floor beneath him, and, more distantly, the sense of _her_ trapped within that power. But that would have to wait. He had a different mission now.

The desk and small office behind it proved to be of no use, and he drifted up the stairs to the floor above. The kitchen lay before him and he circled it once, studying the different machines it held, all humming with a far fainter power of their own. The other room held nothing of interest but a large machine in one corner, and he stared at his reflection in its dark, glassy surface for a long moment before continuing on up the spiral staircase to the top floor.

The room to one side was large and held mostly what he knew to be beds, with a fellow creature floating above one of them, asleep. Careful not to wake the creature, he moved to the room on the opposite side. This held more promise with all its machines and growing things and objects. But after a thorough study, he departed it dissatisfied. And that only left a small room across from the stairs.

It held a large square that reflected him even more perfectly than the machine below had, and he stared again at his reflection a long minute before stretching forward to peer through it. There were shelves behind the square, full of bottles and tubes. His eyes darkened; that was more promising. It took a little time to figure out how the square opened but it did, and he examined the bottles more carefully. Finally choosing a likely candidate, he carefully closed the square behind him and drifted back down to the level below.

Back to the kitchen, to the container of dark liquid that sat on one counter. He struggled briefly with the bottle, but finally managed to open it, and poured its pale peach contents into the container.

There. He stared at it for a moment, but there was no way to tell if it would work. He could only hope… No, it would work. It was necessary. He could not get her back otherwise, and he had to get her back.

The bottle he buried in the deepest part of the container of trash that stood in one corner, then, satisfied, he drifted downstairs and out of the building as silently as he'd come.

 

Ecto pulled into the firehall just behind Janine's car, and their secretary watched as they climbed out of the car.

“Early emergency, huh?” she drawled.

“Elementary school,” Winston said soberly.

Janine grimaced. “Everything okay?”

“The kids are okay, but the ghost got away again. And it was the same one that got away from us Tuesday!” Ray was peeling off his jumpsuit as he talked.

“Are _you_ guys okay?” That seemed to be directed solely at Egon, with a bat of her eyelashes.

He tried not to flush, and brought up his meter in front of him defensively. Surely it was too early in the morning still for such feminine machinations. “Er, yes, thank you. I must go study these readings.” And leaving Winston and Ray to finish unloading, he hurried toward the relative safety of the stairs.

“Chicken,” Peter whispered to him with a smile as he reached the psychologist, who was also heading upstairs. Egon knew exactly where, too: the bed he'd been dragged out of earlier. Already his eyes were at half-mast and he hadn't even bothered to take off his jumpsuit.

“Sloth,” Egon gamely shot back, passing the man in his haste to get upstairs and hearing Peter chuckle behind him.

The lab was, in many ways, his sanctuary, the one place that always made perfect sense to him. Egon strode inside with renewed appreciation, placing the meter on one table and reaching for his lab coat…

Funny, there was a feeling as if someone else had been there while he was gone.

Egon frowned, his arm dropping back to his side as he glanced around the room. There was nothing out of place, nothing amiss, no sign of anything being moved. Strange…

He shook it off. Their elusive ghost was getting to him, though Egon would have sworn he was not a man to whom that would happen. But the strange sense was gone now and he had work to do. Egon filed it away and went back to work, reaching for his lab coat once more.

He'd left the lab door open deliberately, the faint sound of Peter's snores and Ray and Winston talking in the kitchen a welcome backdrop to his work. They were the balance to his lab, the rest of his life, and they completed the feeling of contentment like the missing connection in a circuit. When Ray came upstairs and joined him at the bench, Egon willingly moved over to make room for him, then re-immersed himself in his computations. If he'd been a sentimentalist, he would have had to admit life didn't get much better than that.

It didn't last long.

 

“Peter!”

Even in his dream, already starting to evaporate at the edges, Peter Venkman groaned. Hadn't he gone through this once already that day? It was unfair, not letting a man sleep after he'd done his heroic—

“PETER!”

Something was wrong. There was an urgency in the voice calling him that wasn't usually there just for a job. Peter raised his head from the pillow and squinted his eyes open to the fuzzy vision of…Egon running toward him?

Running?

“PETER! Something is wrong with Ray.”

Running and sounding scared and—Ray? Peter went from half-asleep to wide awake from one heartbeat to the next, scrambling up out of bed. If this was some sort of stupid practical joke, he'd kill all three of them, but Egon's face, now that he saw it clearly, dashed that hope. “What's wrong with Ray?” Peter demanded, grabbing for his boots.

“He collapsed. We were working and he'd been sounding tired—I was just beginning to be concerned when he succumbed.”

“To _what_?” He hadn't bothered with socks and was trying to jam his boots on while they walked. Egon reached automatically over to steady him with one hand as he hopped a few steps, but the physicist's worried eyes were pinned to the doorway and the lab across from it.

“I don't know, but his pulse and respiration are dangerously slow. I fear—”

It wasn't like Egon to leave a sentence unfinished, but Peter knew exactly what he meant. He was afraid, period. Peter had the same feeling already eating away at his gut.

“I've called 911—they're on their way.”

That was going to be Peter's next question, but as they passed through the bunkroom doorway and hurried by the stairs, he thought of another. “Did you get Winston? HEY, WINSTON!” he hollered down the spiral stairs just in case, his steps never slowing.

“I did the same thing before I came to get you.” There was the briefest hesitation in his stride, and Egon exchanged a look with him, instantaneous but full of meaning.

“You don't suppose…” Peter began.

“I'll go check,” Egon murmured, and peeled away to head downstairs with a last agonized look toward the lab.

Peter ran the last few steps.

The sprawled figure of his friend by the lab table was the only thing he had eyes for. The limbs had been carefully straightened, giving the illusion the younger man had merely chosen an odd place to take a nap, but there was a blankness to his face that was uncharacteristic both of sleep and of Ray. And his face was far too white, which meant poor circulation. Which could mean the heart, or the brain, or any manner of other things seriously wrong. Peter's groan stuck in his throat as he dropped to his knees beside his friend.

“Ray? C'mon, buddy, wake up for Peter.” Ray's hands were cold to Peter's touch, which was frightening considering how cold Peter already felt himself, and even up close he could barely see Ray’s chest rise and fall in breath. As he pressed a pair of fingers against the carotid, Peter could count seconds between each beat, and he felt himself pale. What was going _on_ here? Healthy people their age didn't just fall over like that and start slipping away. A heart attack? But they had routine physicals and all of them were in good shape—all that exercise running around with the packs, the doctor had ventured. Besides, the heart rhythm wasn't unsteady, just way too slow, as if it would stop any moment.

_Don't think like that_ , Peter admonished himself angrily, and gathered the cold hand up to his chest. “Don't do this, Ray. It's not nice to scare your friends like this. Wake up for me, huh?”

Not even a twitch of response. Peter grimaced, chewing on his lip.

“Okay, you wanna sleep, go ahead, Tex. Just hang in there, okay? I'll be right here.”

Steps were pounding up the stairs, and it took a moment to realize there was only one set. Peter tore his eyes away from Ray's still face to look at the lab doorway as Egon skidded to a stop inside it. His expression was grave, the stoic set to his face he got when the emotions were becoming too much to handle, but the look in his eyes was pure anguish. “Winston is also unconscious. I found him in the living room, fallen over on the sofa, same symptoms.”

This was a nightmare. Peter pressed his eyes shut briefly, then popped them open to stare at Egon. “You're not feeling—”

Egon had apparently thought the same thing, and was watching Peter just as worriedly. “I feel as fine as possible under the circumstances. And you?”

“I've been better, too, but I don't feel sick, not like that.”

“Good. Then—”

Sirens Peter hadn't noticed before suddenly sounded close, followed a moment later by banging at the front door. Egon immediately turned back toward the stairs, then jerked to a stop for a moment they didn't have but that Peter couldn't begrudge him when he saw his expression.

“Peter…”

He managed a smile from God-knew-where. “I'm okay—I'll be right here with Ray. Go on, Egon.”

“Of course.” A single, stark nod, sharing all his fear in that one motion, and then the blond head disappeared down the stairs.

Ray was breathing even slower, Peter was sure of it as he turned back to his unconscious teammate, each breath just a puff now. He found himself silently coaxing out each one, afraid they would stop.

Winston, too. It was a nightmare. On the job, yeah, there were risks, but they were somewhat prepared for that. But here at home, in the midst of simple daily living… It was unreal. You just didn't lose somebody this way. Well, his mother had collapsed and died much like that. But she'd always had a weak heart and she'd been older.

“Come on, Ray,” Peter begged, but his voice was uncertain now, and he had to brush wetness out of his eyes to see clearly.

Ray took one last faint breath…and then stopped.

And the paramedic arrived and pushed Peter out of the way.

 

“It doesn't make any _sense_!”

Peter dragged his weighty gaze from the waiting room carpet to Janine, standing halfway across the small waiting room. Their secretary had been pacing the room at right angles, the only one of them who seemed to have the energy to do anything but sit. Once or twice Peter had seen her pause by Egon's chair, her expression torn between pity for him and longing to be comforted, but Egon was lost in his own thoughts and even more oblivious to her than usual.

Peter swallowed a sigh and shoved himself to his feet. Everything seemed to require more energy than he thought he had, but he plodded over to her and raised a hand invitingly. Janine looked like she wanted to throw herself into his arms and cry, but that stiff upper lip he admired appeared instead, and she gave him a wan smile. Yeah, they were all feeling it.

“What doesn't?” He knew full well what, but talking helped. He wished he could find the key to releasing all the emotions lurching around inside of him.

“They were fine when you guys got back from the bust—I saw them. It wasn't like they were coming down with something. And what're the chances of the two of 'em getting a heart attack or something at the same time?”

“Astronomical,” Egon intoned dully from a few feet away. Peter spared him a glance, glad to hear _something_ from that member of their party, wincing to hear it in that tone.

He turned back to Janine. “The doctors said they don't know what it is yet, but they'll do some tests—”

“Tests?” Her full New York sarcasm came through in that one word. “What're tests gonna do? Ray and Winston could _die_ while they're running their stupid _tests_.” Her voice abruptly wobbled on the last word, and Janine, one of the toughest people Peter had ever met, started to cry.

That seemed to rouse Egon from his torpor, a fact that would have greatly interested Peter in other circumstances. The physicist was at Peter's side in a moment, and Janine instantly buried herself against his chest.

Peter envied her. He would have loved to bawl himself out in somebody's arms just then, too. Instead, he wrapped his arms around his middle and waited.

A rustle at the door announced the arrival of the doctor. And, Peter's eyes narrowed, a uniformed cop just behind him.

“What's going on?” he demanded before either could open their mouth to speak. He could feel Egon and Janine's attention sharpen behind him.

The doctor looked uncomfortable, always a bad sign, but Peter's wariness rose higher than his fear. “We've run some tests and we think we know what happened. It looks like Dr. Stantz and Mr. Zeddemore both…overdosed on codeine. We found a large amount of the drug in their blood.”

Overdosed? Peter barely heard the sound of disbelief from Janine, trying to keep his own wobbly knees from folding under him. But how could that—

“We've pumped their stomachs just in case and haven't found any pills, but there are several ways for codeine to get into the system. We've begun to counter its effects, and Dr. Stantz seems to be responding.”

“And Winston?” Egon asked. Peter didn't need to turn to know exactly what his expression showed.

A hesitation. “Not yet. It seems he ingested a greater dosage than Dr. Stantz.” Another pause, and even through his daze, Peter could see the man gathering himself up for something. “Officer Denton is here to make a report—I'm afraid that's standard in the case of overdoses—”

Finally, something that made sense to him. And he didn't like what he was hearing, but at least this he could fight. The heavy lethargy suddenly fell away and Peter lunged forward a step. “You've gotta be kidding me—you think Winston and Ray OD'd? That they were either abusing the codeine or-or were trying to kill themselves? You've got a lot of nerve—”

“Please, Dr. Venkman.” The doctor had raised a hand to calm him down, but it had the opposite effect. “I know it's hard to believe that a loved one—”

“You have no idea what you're talking about!” Peter spat out, fury rushing through him like the blood that pounded in his ear. He stepped toward the doctor, ready to get in his face and make him take the accusation back.

“Peter.”

It was only a whisper but it stopped him dead. Peter didn't turn to look at Egon, just stared angrily at the doctor as he hissed back to Spengler. “They're saying Winston and Ray did this on _purpose_.”

“Then we shall prove them wrong.” The calm in his friend's voice seemed to drape itself over his raw nerves like a soothing blanket. “They are only doing their job, both of them.”

He'd forgotten about the cop, but a glance at the man showed his hand resting on his gun, his face guarded. No wonder Egon had been worried. The insanity of the whole day seemed to overwhelm Peter all at once and with a strained laugh, he fell back, sinking onto the arm of a chair. Ray and Winston OD'd? It was crazy.

Egon came up next to him and laid a hand on his arm. “There must be some other explanation, Doctor. We've known Ray and Winston for years, and Dr. Venkman is a psychologist. It would be impossible for one, let alone both, of our colleagues to have been either illicitly using drugs or suicidal without our noticing. Could the drug somehow have accidentally gotten into their systems? Perhaps mistaken for something else?”

The doctor crossed his hands in front of him. “No. There was a far greater quantity in their blood than could have been explained by a normal dosage of another medication. Besides, we found no remains of pills in their stomachs.” He cocked his head. “Do you have any codeine at home?”

Peter looked up at Egon, saw the same realization in the blue eyes. “I had about half a bottle left over from when I had my wisdom teeth out a few years ago. I don't think I ever threw it away…” he said softly.

The doctor's expression was devastating.

No. Peter abruptly stiffened his spine. This was wrong, he was certain of it, and he refused to let it happen. “What about…” It was grasping for straws and he knew it, but if you ruled out the impossible… “What about if somebody else drugged them?”

He heard Janine's quiet gasp, saw the policeman's eyes sharpen, felt Egon's hand convulse on his arm, but what other options were there? Peter would have killed for another just then.

“Are you suggesting one of your other colleagues poisoned—”

“No!” Peter snapped, and forced himself to calm down yet again. “I'm suggesting someone came into the firehall and did something, maybe while we were gone.”

The doctor pursed his lips, looking doubtful but not completely dismissive. “Well, this is more Officer Denton's area than mine, but if what you're suggesting is true, how is it you and Dr. Spengler weren't affected?”

“Well, we know they weren't attacked or anything, and it obviously wasn't in the air. That probably means something they ate or drank, right?” His mind, creaky with worry, was starting to speed up.

“Possibly.” The doctor was nodding slowly. “If the pills were crushed and added to a solid or, more likely, dissolved into a liquid…”

“Coffee,” Egon murmured.

They all turned to stare at him.

“Ray and Winston both had coffee after we returned from the school. Ray mentioned it when he brought the remainder of his cup up to the lab with him. You went straight to bed after our arrival and didn't have any, Peter, and I had tea. Ray and Winston had the coffee.”

“Yes, there was some coffee in the contents of their stomachs." The doctor nodded with more enthusiasm now. “I can have it tested for codeine levels.”

“We'll need to check out that coffee then,” the policeman finally spoke up, his tone a little more skeptical, but Peter would take what he could get.

“I'll go with you,” Janine volunteered. “You'll need someone to show you where it is.” Peter spared her a grateful smile, heartened when she returned it.

The doctor muttered something about testing the coffee and disappeared. “Miss?” Officer Denton motioned Janine to come with him.

They'd almost reached the doorway, Peter already turning to Egon to say something, when Denton stopped and looked back at them.

“'Course, you realize what this means. Someone's out to get all four of you.”

And with that comforting announcement, he left them alone to think.

 

Time sped up as you approached the speed of light, at least relatively. That was scientific fact.

So why was it time felt like it was crawling while he just sat there immobile, a leaden lump?

It hadn't slowed, of course, and Egon knew that. It was just a subjective perception due to stress and its physiological and psychological affects. Hearing positive news about Ray and Winston would alleviate both, and time would again seem to proceed at its normal speed.

But until then it certainly seemed to be inching along with ridiculous lethargy.

“How you doing over there, Egon?”

Peter's voice from beside him snatched him back onto at least some small island of normalcy. “I'm contemplating the enigmatic progress of time,” Egon answered honestly.

A snort of laughter. “Really? Come up with anything interesting?”

“Only that it seems to be progressing far more slowly than would seem necessary.”

“To you and me both.” Peter sighed, and the sofa cushion bobbed under Egon as Venkman rose and stretched. “Feels like we've been here forever.”

Egon abandoned the fruitless line of thought and looked up at his old friend instead, taking in the lines of fatigue and worry in his face, the hooded but sharp eyes. “And how are you, Peter?”

Another spurt of laughter, unamused this time. “Thinking about what-ifs. Like what if I'd gone to have coffee with Ray and Winston instead of crawling back into bed? Maybe I'd have tasted something. Or maybe I'd've had less and could've noticed something sooner.”

“If you had drunk the coffee as well, the sole difference would be your fighting for your life alongside Winston and Ray, Peter, and I would be alone. And I was with Ray before he collapsed and noticed nothing except for some degree of lethargy beforehand. There is nothing you could have done that would have changed this outcome.”

“Yeah, well…” Peter sank back onto the sofa beside him. “No matter how much sense you make, it doesn't mean I'm not gonna think about what if. That's just human nature.”

Egon's mouth twisted. “Are you admitting to being merely human, Peter?”

The smile his friend gave him broke Egon’s heart a little more. “I don't feel too miraculous right now, Egon.”

He nodded silently, and when Peter's hand gripped his knee, he clung back. If time were slowed in that room, in his little extra-reality bubble, at least he was not in it alone.

“Actually, I was thinking about something else, too,” Peter finally spoke.

Egon said nothing, just raised an eyebrow in invitation to continue.

“Winston's birthday. It's coming up next month. I thought maybe we could all chip in and get him one big present this year.”

It hurt, this new course of conversation, but he knew what Peter was doing and went along with it. “Indeed? I suppose you have the present picked out already.”

“Well, I happened to notice Zed checking out some of the newest sound systems downtown last week. They cost a bundle, but I figured with the three of us in it together…”

“Ah. And of course, Winston would allow you to also use the stereo whenever you wished.”

“Uh—”

Egon hid a smile. “I think it's a commendable idea, Peter. If Ray concurs, I will take part.”

“Great.” Peter actually grinned at him, and that alone made worthwhile whatever his no-doubt sizeable gift contribution would be. “Ray and I'll go shopping for it when, uh…” His happiness vanished.

“The doctor said he is improving. I'm certain he will be returning home soon.”

“Yeah…” Peter sat silently for a long minute, then gave a restless stir. “You know, I get how you can't always live like it's your last day and always appreciate what you have—the mind can't take it after a while. But times like this, I wonder if we got too complacent, you know? Took what we had for granted? Ray wanted to go to a movie last night and I blew him off for a date. A date, Egon. How low is that?”

His eyebrows rose again. “A date you had been looking forward to all week. You had no way of knowing Ray would…fall ill today. As you said, we cannot always live as if it were our last day or we would never leave each other's company.”

“Yeah, that would kinda put a crimp in our love lives,” Peter said, but the humor rang hollow.

“Not only that, it would not be healthy. Separation makes the time together all the more valuable, as it does during times like these. Although,” Egon added thoughtfully, “I hardly think you do not appreciate the worth of your friends except when you are in danger of losing them.”

“Heck, no! It hits me all the time how lucky I got with you guys. The other day when we were coming home, all I could think about was kicking back and…hanging…” The green eyes narrowed. “That was sneaky, Egon.”

“Thank you,” he said demurely.

“You'd make a good psychologist, you know that? All that stuff about how I don't value you guys.” Peter shook his head.

“I doubt I am that good a student of human nature, Peter, but I know you. These doubts are natural, but they're misplaced. Ray and Winston know how we feel, and I doubt they would have appreciated it more had you made a point to tell them in so many words and not let them out of your sight.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Okay, you’re right, I’m wrong. Let's just not make a habit of it, huh?

“Not wrong,” Egon said gently. “Human.”

They fell into a silence that was at least lighter than before.

There was, of course, something they hadn't discussed yet but that needed mentioning and Peter didn't seem likely to bring it up. Egon finally spoke up with reluctance. “We may still be in danger from whoever tried to kill Winston and Ray.”

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that, too. I don't think they're gonna come here, though. If they're cowardly enough to sneak in and poison the coffee, they're probably not man enough to take the risk.” Peter's voice was as cold and dark as Egon had rarely heard it.

“True. We must consider the possibility when we return home, however. None of us will be safe until the perpetrator is caught.”

Peter sighed. “I know. I just…as much as I wanna wrap my hand's around the guy's throat, I don't think I can deal with that, too, right now, you know? We can worry about it…after.”

Egon silently nodded. Perhaps it was not wise, but it was the best they could do just then. This was not some supernatural menace they were trained to deal with, and there was plenty else to think about.

Like Winston's birthday—Egon had turned down an invitation to speak at Columbia in order to be home that day. But now with the guest of honor, one of his closest friends, in mortal peril, it seemed impossible to think that far. Peter had been encouraging optimism, assuming both Ray and Winston would recover, but the truth was that either—or both—might not. And even if their lives were spared, were there any potential side effects to a codeine overdose? The doctor had not mentioned any, but other drugs could leave physical damage behind: paralyzation, brain damage…coma. Winston's birthday could be a day or mourning instead of celebration.

How odd that a single person, or two people, could so thoroughly impact his life. Egon would never have believed it a dozen years earlier, but that had been before he'd met brash Peter Venkman and buoyant Ray Stantz, and then later calm Winston Zeddemore, and his life had become so infiltrated and altered that it would never be the same with the loss of any of them. The loss of two was unfathomable.

“Try not to think about it, Egon,” Peter's voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts for all its softness.

He frowned, unexpectedly irritated. “How can I not—”

“I don't mean don't think about Winston and Ray, just don't think about the worst. If it's gonna happen, there's no way you can prepare for it now, and it just makes you miserable. Think about the good stuff, okay?”

Egon felt himself stiffen, the old defenses against the taint of emotionalism rising from where'd he'd stored them years before. “It is illogical to ignore the seriousness of their condition or the possible outcome, Peter. I don't know how…” He was going to say he didn't know Peter could suggest such a thing, but the steady, knowing gaze of his friend on him killed the words unspoken. The fact was, his arguments and logic were all just a cover for how truly lost and afraid he felt. What he really didn't know was how to do what Peter was suggesting.

“Being a friend isn't science, Egon. You don't have to look at all the 'possible outcomes.' Just…hope. Pray. Think about all the stuff we're gonna do when this is just a bad memory. They're gonna be okay, Egon.”

The realization dawned slowly: Peter wasn't in denial or blind. This was just another way of believing in his friends, and conserving his strength for what might lie ahead. But venturing there now was foolish, not preparatory.

Not to mention agonizing.

Egon slowly nodded, not quite able to let go of his own what-ifs but trying to focus on the alternative. He could do that. He _had_ to do that, or risk drowning in the sea of his anguish. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Peter's hand only tightened on his leg, a silent acceptance. And a promise that no matter what happened, he would be the anchor that wouldn't let Egon sink.

And vice-versa.

They waited.

 

He had hovered in the corner, unnoticed by the two humans, listening. When their silence stretched on and it didn't seem they would speak again for some time, he finally withdrew, out through the wall.

He was disturbed. He had come to see if his vengeance had claimed them all or if he needed to devise another for the rest, and found not the rampaging monsters he expected, but beings who were grieving their loss as keenly as he did his own. Of course, even evil felt pain when hurt…but did it not say something of the quality of a being to be capable of this depth of attachment and grief?

A new thought had begun to form in him. Perhaps they had not taken her out of malice or cruelty. Perhaps they had not understood, had not known what they were doing. If that was true, there was a possibility he could show them their mistake and get her back. A possibility he had probably ruined by what he'd done. And the grief he felt at that nearly cancelled his pity again.

But…he slid into a room where the silence was broken by strange non-living noises, and one of her takers lay still and unknowing. If it was true, if they had not realized nor meant harm, his actions were no better than theirs—worse, even, because he had acted deliberately. The grief he caused others would not help his own grief, and now he felt the burden of shame and guilt, too. He studied the motionless face and felt only sadness now. This was not how she would have wanted it, either.

He could not undo what he'd done, but he could do something. And maybe, though he dared not yet hope, if these ignorant intruders were as he suspected, he could still get her back, as well.

He slipped back through the wall to the outside and set off.

 

There was a decidedly unpleasant taste in his mouth, the numbing weight of a sleeping Peter on his arm, and the scratchiness of his eyes and chin to testify to the long night spent in the waiting room.

The policeman—Officer Denton—had returned some hours before to say the coffee had indeed been poisoned, but they were unable to find any sign of forced entry or any recognizably foreign fingerprints on the coffee pot, the bathroom cabinet, or the two outside doors. They had taken samples of all the other open liquids and foods in the firehall for testing as well, but those results would only come later. The pills themselves were gone, the empty bottle found hidden under layers of trash. But it had been covered in Slimer's slime and some tomato sauce from the trash can and so couldn't be printed. That it had been hidden made suicide far less likely, to their relief…but it also meant an enemy.

But who? He and Peter had come up with a few names for the officer, but even old foes like Walter Peck were not likely to resort to poisoning. Besides, what sort of murder attempt was it that was clever enough to leave no sign of break-in and yet left the medicine bottle there in the kitchen, hidden only under some trash? It made no sense, not even criminally.

Neither of them had dwelt on it. There would be time to solve that mystery when the far more important issue of Winston and Ray's welfare was resolved, and Egon put the matter aside without hesitation.

With the promise they would call immediately with any news, Janine had agreed to be taken back to her apartment by the now-solicitous Denton. It had produced an odd stab of irritation in Egon amidst his gratitude, which he hadn't thought about too closely since. They'd had a chance to briefly see Ray, who was looking much better, and Winston, who wasn't, and then Peter and he had returned alone to the waiting room. The Zeddemores had been called, but were sitting with their son in his room as they all waited.

And waited.

He had interminable patience when awaiting the results of an experiment or his calculations, but of course that was hardly as consequential and life-altering as this. Egon was trying to take Peter's recommendation, to think positively and to pray and hope. But all he felt was a cold limbo as he waited to see if two irreplaceable people in his life were gone, two sides of him cleaved off and the team cut in two.

Even to his prosaic mind, it was, simply put, hell.

Peter muttered something in his sleep, tuned as always to Egon's emotions. Egon stilled him with a softly rumbled, “It's all right, Peter,” and tried to calm his own disquiet at least for the sake of his friend. It had been difficult to coax Peter to sleep in the first place, only the fact he'd gotten little sleep the night before and might need to be alert soon winning the argument. And perhaps that sleep didn't require leaving Egon's side, which no persuasion on earth would have done. It was not a small thing, and it provided Egon the only measure of comfort he'd had that long night.

There was no window in the waiting room, but his internal clock said it was somewhere around dawn. Surely they would know something soon. If they did not, Egon would go hunt down a doctor who would offer him some sort of progress report, or else…

One of the white uniform-clad figures always passing in the hall hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside. It wasn't the doctor of before; an intern, perhaps, much younger, his face as peach-fuzzy as Egon's doubtless was, but already with an air of authority. Which was promptly undermined by the look of awe as he caught sight of them. Another fan, Egon thought with wan amusement. He shrugged Peter awake.

“Hmm? What? Oh.” It took less effort than usual, Peter's frown as he blinked at the intern making it obvious he hadn't forgotten the situation even while he slept. “Did I miss something?”

“No, Dr. Venkman. Dr. Spengler. It's a pleasure to meet you both. I wish the circumstances were different…” The intern's voice was unusually deep—maybe he was older than he seemed? Egon hoped so if this was the person responsible for Ray and Winston's care.

“Is there any news?” he asked impatiently, cutting to the heart of the matter.

“Oh, uh, yes. Good news, in fact. Dr. Stantz is sleeping now and seems to be out of danger. His readings are only slightly depressed now and he's been responding to stimuli and questions. Mr. Zeddemore was a little slower to respond but he's doing better now—we're still keeping an eye on his respiration and blood pressure, but he's definitely improved. We're hoping to move him out of the ICU later today.”

It felt like something taut and under pressure exploded inside of him, a rush of cool relief flowing through his chest. It washed away the weight that had resided there so abruptly, it nearly made Egon dizzy. Next to him, Peter sat in similar stunned disbelief for a moment, then jumped up with a whoop and shook Egon's shoulder.

“Did you hear that? They're okay! They're gonna be okay!”

“That's not exactly what I said…” the intern hedged.

“Close enough. Thank you, Doc.” Peter shook his hand enthusiastically. “You ever get a ghost, the bust'll be on us.”

“Uh, thank you…”

Egon watched the scene and Peter's overflowing elation with a quiet joy of his own. He realized they weren't completely out of harm's way, especially Winston, but even this reassurance was tremendous encouragement. He didn't try to rein in his friend at all, even to save the bewildered intern, who finally made his excuse and left, probably wondering if his heroes were completely sane.

Peter turned back to Egon, eyes shining. “I told you they'd be okay.”

“Yes, Peter,” he said simply.

And wasn't surprised when the shine suddenly turned to tears and Peter dropped into the chair across from Egon with shaking shoulders. He just got up and moved to the chair next to his friend and held on tight as his own face unashamedly grew wet.

They could worry about ego later. For now, nothing mattered but that their friends, and their lives, had been restored to them.

 

Peter honestly thought he could fly for a minute as he walked out of the hospital room. If miracles could happen like Ray opening his eyes and smiling at him and even whispering his name, gravity didn't seem so unconquerable. The thought of Winston sobered him a little; the oldest Ghostbuster wasn't awake yet, but his color was better and he was breathing on his own now, and his parents had looked happy. It wouldn't be long, Peter was sure of it.

“Did you hear him,” he nudged Egon next to him. “He said 'Peter.'”

“Actually, I believe it was 'Egon,'” came the dry response.

He rolled his eyes. “We should get your hearing checked while we're here, Spengs. He clearly said, 'Peter.'” He had and they both knew it, and he wouldn't have razzed Egon about it except that Egon got his own greeting, a grin of sheer pleasure that had every bit of Ray's old spirit in it for all its fatigue. Yep, flying didn't seem impossible at all.

They were getting smiles from the hospital staff they passed in the hallway, too. That was another good sign: practically the whole hospital staff knew them by now, and their sympathetic, uncomfortable expressions of before had chilled Peter's blood. Now, he felt like hugging each one. Especially the pretty, female ones.

“I think I'm gonna go down to the gift shop and see if they have some gummy bears. Ray loves those things. Or maybe some jellybeans. They probably haven't got pretzels for Winston, but I bet the 7-11 down the street does.”

Egon was giving him that amused look that said he saw right through him and was enjoying the view, but Peter didn't mind. It was just another reminder things were getting back to normal and he had all of his best friends back. “I don't believe the doctor mentioned candy and pretzels as part of the approved diet. Perhaps one of those—”

“Dr. Spengler?” One of the nurses at the station they were passing spoke up, one hand cupped over the telephone receiver she held in the other.

They both stopped. “Yes?” Egon answered. Peter watched, his thoughts still on candy. Maybe Ray liked lemon drops better? He thought he remembered the younger man getting gummy bears last time they'd gone to the movies…

“Phone for you or Dr. Venkman.”

That snagged his attention again briefly, but Egon reached for the receiver. “I'll take it.”

The nurse, a brunette with no wedding ring on her finger and a nice figure, smiled at Peter, and he forgot all about sweets of the edible sort.

“Dr. Spengler. Mm-hmm. Yes. I think you're right. We'll be there soon.”

Again Peter jumped trains of thought, more reluctantly this time, and looked at Egon. “We'll be _where_ soon?”

“The school again. They believe the Class Five from before has returned, and this time it's throwing things at people.” He began walking again, faster this time, and toward the elevator.

Peter muttered a curse, the lovely nurse forgotten, and hurried after Egon. “I'm not crazy about going after that thing with just two of us.” But it was a half-hearted protest and he knew it.

Egon gave him a pointed look as soon as they stepped into the elevator. “Do you feel it can wait?” He nodded at Peter's expression. “Nor do I. Besides, we can ask Janine.”

Peter shook his head. “Let her sleep. We'll bring along an extra pack just in case, but I think we'll be okay. It's only a Class Five, right? And this spook's scared of us, anyway.”

“I have no intention of letting it get away this time,” Egon said with surprising gravity.

Peter gave him an appraising look as they wound their way among the cars to Ecto. “Yeah, know what you mean,” he said softly. “I feel like kicking the stuffing out of something, too.”

It was morning rush hour, and Peter flicked the siren on as they drove back to the firehall for their uniforms and equipment. It felt funny, just he and Egon, but it wouldn't be that way for long, he reminded himself. Winston would be back to driving and Ray to bouncing with excitement in no time. Funny how all the things he otherwise groused about became so priceless when they were absent. Of course, he wouldn't share that little realization with Winston and Ray.

And then there was still the guy out there somewhere who'd tried to kill them and almost succeeded with two of them. Peter gave an unconscious glance around the firehall as they pulled inside, expecting some sort of obvious booby-trap or a figure lurking in the shadows, but there was nothing but the cheerful glow of their home. They'd probably left all the lights on in their hurry to leave—could it have only been the morning before? Not even twenty-four hours. He'd slept through less. Egon had been right about the enigma of time, for Peter felt like he'd been away, slowly dying in that waiting room, for at least a week.

They went to work in silence, in tandem so automatically that Peter never thought to question it anymore. He knew Egon was getting the packs as surely as Egon would know he was handling the traps and grabbing an extra meter. They pulled their jumpsuits on next, and gave each other a brief glance before heading back to the car. Egon's was warm, grateful to have Peter at his side, and Peter only hoped his own gaze returned the sentiment because he felt it clear down to his boots. If it was only to be two of them, there was no one he would rather have at his side, both in that waiting room and going after their elusive Class Five.

“Ready?” he asked redundantly, waiting only for Egon's nod, and then they were off again, siren blaring.

There was a row of buses in front of the school this time, kids just arriving for the day. The teachers were outside waiting for them, collecting small clusters of their students around them instead of leading them inside. More than one pleading glance was thrown at the two of them as Egon and Peter gathered their equipment and headed back inside.

“Déjà vu,” Peter muttered as they again stood in front of the three corridors of the building. His hand flexed restlessly on his thrower's grip.

“No,” Egon said seriously next to him as he adjusted his meter. “Déjà vu is the feeling one has had the same experience previously even though it is actually new. We have been here before.”

Peter stuck his tongue out at him, and even though Egon's eyes were on the meter, his mouth quirked. Then he looked up. “That way. The same readings as last time.”

“Let's go. This ghost's toast.”

They went down a different hallway this time, walking as quietly as possible but their footsteps echoing in the empty building. So much for taking the ghost by surprise, Peter thought, although some of them couldn't hear. That was probably too much to hope for this time, but Egon's meter's beeping grew stronger as they went, not weaker. The ghost wasn't taking off yet.

A fourth grade room this time, the number “4” in rainbow hues by the door. They unshipped their throwers on either side of the open door, gave each other a final glance, and flung themselves inside.

The ghost hovered in front of the blackboard like a teacher, rows of math problems visible through its transparent, amorphous body. He was on Peter's side of the room, and Peter instantly whirled to face it, setting his feet and taking aim, hearing Egon do the same a half-second behind him.

“Glad came,” the ghost said.

Peter blinked, his finger freezing on the trigger. The _ghost_ had spoken?

“Need talk.”

It had to be. Not that it had a mouth that moved, but the sound came from its direction, a peculiar rusty, scraping sound unlike any human voice Peter had ever heard. And it floated there placidly, impervious to their throwers, not fleeing like before. Waiting for a response.

Uh, okay, that was his department. “You want to talk to us?” Peter ventured.

“Yes.” It bobbed a little.

This was weird. Peter risked a sideways glance at Egon, seeing enthrallment in his friend's eyes. Not that Class Five couldn't talk—Slimer did, after a fashion—but ghosts they tried to bust usually didn't want to talk to them except for yelling threats and deprecations.

Egon wasn't saying anything, leaving it in his court, and so Peter cleared his throat and lowered his thrower just a fraction.

“Okay, we're listening.”

“Take her.”

Peter's brows drew together. “Take who?”

“Her.”

This was getting him nowhere fast. “You want us to take something? Or you mean, trap something?”

A slight side-to-side wobble this time. “No. Take her…not now.”

That one took a moment of puzzling before a light glimmered. “You think he means the other ghost we trapped?” he said sotto voce to Egon.

“Perhaps.”

But the ghost was already bobbing. “Yes. Other. Take her.”

Her? Peter was starting to get a picture he didn't like. “You mean the ghost we trapped Tuesday? That was your girlfriend?”

“Her.” It wasn't much of an answer, but there was an undeniable affection that came through even the screeching voice that Peter couldn't help recognize.

“Fascinating,” Egon breathed beside him.

“We trapped his lady,” he whispered back. “I don't believe it. Does that mean Slimer has a wife and kids somewhere out there?”

There were Class Four’s former humans, who sometimes manifested with their spouses, and the occasional monster with its mate, but a ghost-like Class Five entity like the one in front of them usually didn’t have a sex. Of course, with all the weird things they'd seen over the years, why not?

To the waiting ghost, Peter said, “I'm sorry, we didn't know. You were upsetting some people—like us—so we were going to remove you. We didn't hurt her, we just put her somewhere where she couldn't scare anybody. We'd have taken you, too, if you'd let us.”

The ghost seemed to stare at them for a moment, then asked, “Take too?”

Peter was getting the hang of this weird conversation and nodded gamely. “Sure, we can take you, too. You'll be with your lady friend again in no time.” He unhooked the trap from his belt. “You just go in here—”

“Must tell,” the ghost interrupted him.

Peter frowned. “Tell what?”

“Want her. Hurt other. Poison home. Sick.”

He could hear Egon suck in a breath. That almost sounded like...

The ghost seemed to wilt. “Sorry. Not know. Not bad.”

The room wavered for a moment, or maybe he staggered. And then things became very clear and Peter straightened, clenching the thrower painfully. “Are you trying to tell me you put the pills in the coffee?” he gritted out. “You were the one who almost killed Ray and Winston?” It was too fantastical…but there had been slime on the pill bottle, Denton had mentioned it. They'd assumed it was from something of Slimer's in the trash. But that would explain the lack of forced entry and fingerprints. Ghosts didn't leave prints. Peter's face tightened until it felt like it would crack.

“Yes. Forgive.”

A ghost, a stupid ghost had almost killed two of his best buddies because it was mad they'd taken its girlfriend. And it was sitting there admitting it and expecting them to forgive it just like that. Peter lifted his thrower again.

The ghost didn't move, but Egon did, placing his hand on top of the thrower's barrel. Not pushing it down, just resting it there.

Peter glared hotly at him. “Egon, you heard what it said. It almost killed Ray and Winston. It _wanted_ to kill all of us.”

“After we had taken its mate,” Egon said quietly. “It was grieving, Peter.”

He didn't say more. He didn't have to.

Peter's grip faltered. He wanted to stay mad, he really did. He wanted to zap that thing into next week and make it hurt like Peter had hurt. Except…maybe it already had.

He wasn't always rational when grief was still fresh, like now. It wasn't really fair to expect a ghost to be, either, then, and Peter was a fair man. The Class Five had acted on impulse and limited knowledge—had it been trying to say it didn't know they weren't bad? Well, yeah, okay, from the ghost's point of view, maybe the four of them had charged in and trapped its lady when they thought they were just minding their own business, so who would have been the villain then? Maybe it even thought it was doing good, sort of a reverse busting.

But Ray and Winston, Ray taking his last breath on the lab floor…

Ray never would have wanted to separate a couple, even a couple of ghosts. Peter knew just what the younger man’s reaction would have been to the ghost's revelation: horrified sympathy, even after what the ghost had done to them.

Peter slowly relaxed his stance. Yeah, he was mad, and shaken, and afraid. But taking it out on the ghost wouldn't make any of that right. He needed to be mad at the right thing.

He lowered his thrower all the way, watching the ghost carefully, then paused only a moment before putting it away. “You didn't know,” he said wearily. “Get in and we'll take you to her.”

The ghost quivered. “Thanks. Good.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter tossed the trap beneath it and, hesitating only a moment, pressed the pedal and closed his eyes. There was a flash and a click, and then it was just he and Egon and the blinking trap.

“You did the right thing,” Egon spoke up in the silence. “I'm certain Ray and Winston would have agreed.”

Peter nodded, feeling the fatigue in every bone as he crossed the room to retrieve the trap. So much trouble and heartache from such a stupid misunderstanding. Life was more fragile than he thought he could bear sometimes.

Egon's hand curled around his shoulder, quietly understanding, and they just stood there for a moment. And finally Peter took a deep breath. Time to move on. Ray and Winston would be waiting.

“Can we go home now?” he asked with just the right amount of plaintiveness.

It worked, Egon's mouth quirking. “We should. We have a reunion to perform, and then we are expected back at the hospital.”

“Right.”

They walked out of the room, the weight on Peter's shoulders lightening with each step. Maybe life was fragile, but it had won this round. All of them had, Peter glanced at the blinking trap.

He straightened. “But I've still got an important question to ask you.”

Egon face became serious again. “Yes?”

“Gummy bears or jellybeans?”

 

There was an emptiness for a short time he could bear because of the promise of seeing her again. It was possible they'd tricked him and would not take him to her…but somehow he could not believe that. Nor could he bear to believe it.

Sound finally penetrated the nothingness, and then a strange pulling sensation. And in the next moment, he was somewhere else, someplace vast and comfortable and populated with others of his kind. He looked around at it, marveling. So this was the place he'd felt earlier, the power emanating from below…

And then with a glad cry, she was there, flying into him, joining with him, and his joy and gratitude knew no bounds.

He was complete again.

The End


End file.
